


Patchwork

by LaughableLament



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 12 Days of Wincestmas, Ficlet Collection, First Time, M/M, More tags in the chapter headers, Post-Canon, Pre-Series, Sam is 17, The Epic Love Story of Sam and Dean, Underage - Freeform, for their, non-linear, that makes a 'verse, through
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 12:23:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 11,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13294818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughableLament/pseuds/LaughableLament
Summary: Twelve ficlets, one Epic Love Story.





	1. Red

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nisaki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nisaki/gifts).



> Warm wincestmas wishes to my darling friend! Thank you for your patience and your wonderful prompts. ♥‿♥

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [kind of inspired by the third prompt here](https://nisaki-chan.tumblr.com/post/168546701394/chromehoplite-rumpuswriters-christmas-aus)
> 
>  
> 
> Chapter Rating: Teen (for language)
> 
> Tags/Warnings: pool hall, possessive Dean, mistletoe, PDA, non-explicit homophobia

This chick at the bar’s been giving Sam thirsty eyes all night. And far be it from Dean to slut-shame, glass houses and shit, but he can for damn sure taste-shame. Girl’s hair and mouth are the same unnatural red. Knee-high stiletto boots, blue jeans and a Christmas sweater so tight he can damn near see her pulse.

Sam takes off to buy their next round and she zeroes in like some kinda dick-seeking missile. And ordinarily Dean’d sooner poke himself in the eye than leave cash on the table but… “I’m out. I forfeit.”

Pair of grimy truckers he’s been workin’ stare at him slackjawed. He can count on zero fingers the shits he gives.

“…catch you under the mistletoe later,” Red’s sayin’ and Dean thinks, _my happy ass._ Blue lights strung overhead turn her dye job an atrocious purple.

Sam smiles, dimples and charm. “We’ll see,” like he’s got some call to be diplomatic here. He turns, blinks when he sees Dean. “Game over?”

Dean shrugs. “I’s gettin’ bored. Play darts with me.”

Sam’s forehead crinkles up. And if this was a different kinda bar, in a different kinda town, Dean’d just lay one on him and make his intent clear. He don’t wanna fight civilians though. Much rather save the punch-throwin’ for monster-freaks.

Girl shows teeth. Dean thumps Sam’s arm and tips his chin toward the dart boards.

Sam hands him a beer and falls in. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

Dean shrugs. “Just wanna smoke my little brother at darts, is that a crime?”

Sam eyes him like he wants to get the holy water.

“Call it my, Christmas present to me.”

“You’re weird,” Sam says, and he ain’t wrong. They don’t much play bar games _against_ each other, unless they’re pullin’ a con.

Halfway through the first match, Dean gets to thinking they should do this more. Sam holds his own and then some; game’s closer than Dean woulda figured. Shit talk. Pokes and punches and yeah, every now and then Dean shoots stink-eye the girl’s way. Not that she gets the message.

Down to the last dart, Dean squeaks out a win. Claps Sam on the back, just a little petting. “Nice game, Sasquatch.”

Sam rolls eyes. “I gotta piss. We gonna play again, or…”

“Yeah, sure. Why not?” Dean gathers up the darts, tosses them idly at the board.

Corner of his eye, he spots Red. Followin’ Sam toward the dark hallway that leads to the johns. Dean bulls up, gonna have to go give her a talkin’-to, but she stops at a two-top next to the emergency exit and he breathes.

It ain’t ‘til Sam pops out of the hall and Red swoops in, Dean gets it. Fuckin’ mistletoe, dangling half-hid out of a string of those dumbass icicle lights. Girl steps close. Sam puts hands on her shoulders and Dean about knocks down the Christmas tree there by the jukebox. Shoves aside three, four guys—

“Hey! Watch it!”

And tramples at least one girl’s toes.

“…flattered, but I’m here with someone,” Sam’s sayin’.

And Red goes, “I been watchin’ you all night, sweet thing, and I—”

Dean grabs Sam by a shoulder, spins him and slams him right into the wall. Smashes their mouths together. Sam grunts before he catches on, groans, even slips Dean a little tongue.

Men holler, “What the fuck!?” and a handful of un-PC insults.

Time to go.

Dean shoves Red a few bucks. “Tip the bartender, willya?” And Sam gets the side door, icy air Dean hopes’ll cool off tempers.

No slowin’ down ’til they’re three blocks gone. Sam laughs, wide and loud, and even Dean can’t fight a grin.

“You’re ridiculous,” Sam says.

He ain’t wrong.


	2. Green

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Rating: Teen
> 
> Tags/Warnings: underage, pre-series, mild pining, Christmas presents, first kiss

Tree’s a scrawny thing, straight out of _A Charlie Brown Christmas_. Sam finds it next to a dumpster in back of the strip mall down the street. Looks closer, and yeah… Most of the needles are brown, or gone, on one side. Other side’s still respectable. So he waits until dark, lugs it back to the motel, and props it up snug in a corner, green side out.

He hits up the dollar store for glass balls, strand of garland. Kind of splurges on lights from the pharmacy. Dean’s gonna laugh, and Dad’ll be pissed, but they can fuck off. Sam earned the money himself, shoveling snow for the night manager.

Last day of school, headed toward the bus, Sam hears a whistle. Bird call, something with no earthly business at this latitude, this time of year. Eyes dart around. Glossy black and chrome, leather and brass gleam in the winter sun. Sam chirps the response, ducks off the sidewalk.

“Heya, Sammy.” Crinkle-eyed smile that turns Sam’s knees to water, every time.

“It’s Sam.”

Rolled eyes. And a truly awful British accent, “Mistah Winchestah. Might I offah the gentleman a ride?”

Sam shakes his head. “Get in the goddamn car.”

Dean gasps, caresses a fender. “Aw, don’t listen to him, Baby; he doesn’t understand us.”

“You’re a head case.”

“I’m starved.” Dean peels out of the parking lot. Throws gravel and draws stares. “What’s good around here?”

Sam shrugs. Pretty much lives off Pop Tarts and school lunch, Chef Boyardee and Hungry Man. “There’s a greasy spoon by the motel.”

“Awesome.” Dean licks his chops. “Where’re we stayin’ again?”

“Pembroke Pines.” Home sweet hellhole. “Make a left when you get to Veterans.”

“That’s my boy.” Dean backhands his arm. Knuckles linger, brush up and down. All in Sam’s head. Must be.

-

“Where is Dad anyway?” Sam pokes at his chili, mixes the crackers in.

Dean dunks bacon cheese fries in ranch. “Back in Canton.” Crams a mouthful. “Lonely, grateful widow…” Shudders.

“Gross.”

“Tell me about it.” Dean licks dressing off his fingers, eyes Sam. “Threw me a clean card, told me to get gone. Probably be there through New Year’s.” Boots bump under the table. “We’re gettin’ a Christmas vacation.”

“And you came here?” Comes out bitchy, because even by Winchester standards this place is a piece of shit.

“’Course I did.” Dean looks… wounded?  Another bite of fries and a garbled, “These’re awesome. How’s the chili?”

Sam shrugs. “Not as good as yours.”

“Well obviously.” Dean winks. Talks with his mouth full, all about tracking a skinwalker pack halfway across Texas. Sam nods, laughs and groans at appropriate times. Dean asks for the check when the waitress comes by. Watches her ass as she walks away.

“Think I can get her number?”

Sam’s stomach sinks. Of course Dean wants to spend his Christmas banging some girl. “Probably.” He rolls his eyes. “You’ll tell her what? You’re some kinda Hollywood talent scout?”

Dean makes gun-hands. “Now you’re thinkin’, Sammy; maybe _you_ oughta get her number.”

“Pass.” Sam sips his Coke to hide his sour face.

“Yeah, you’re right.”

Sam squints.

“I wanna hit the motel. Get me a shower, forty winks. Ain’t slept since…” Dean counts on his fingers.

“Dean…”

“Yeah, yeah. But I mainlined Nerve Damage all night. Just now comin’ down.”

“That shit’s gonna give you a heart attack.”

“Not if the booze gets me first.” Dean winks, again, and Sam resolutely keeps his mouth shut.

–

“Dude, no.”

“Dude, yes. The only thing sadder’n that tree right there, is that tree without any presents.”

Sam rubs head against a building ache.

“Seriously.” Dean grabs him by the shoulders. Eyes wide, green and pleading. “When do you think we’ll get another chance like this?”

Okay, so, point for Dean. Sam thinks about college brochures, stuffed in his backpack. SAT, he took in secret. “Fine,” He goes full brat. Can’t give his brother an uncontested victory. “Twenty-dollar limit.”

“Fifty.”

“Thirty-five?”

Dean grins down to his toes. “Deal.”

–

Sam wanders Wal-Mart. First twenty bucks went to staples: new socks, undershirts, CLP. Can’t hardly find good cassettes anymore. New floor mats? Sucks. Same goes for cologne. He rifles a clearance shelf. Pillows and travel cups, fall-scented candles, a toilet brush of all damn things. He rubs his eyes, no clue, and—

Black rounded corner peeks out from a stack of Thanksgiving-themed placemats. Outdated planner, maybe?

Real leather. Blank sheets, center rings, expandable. Leather’s scuffed inside and some pages are wrinkled but otherwise? Sam flips the tag, not optimistic: “$44.99” and “70% OFF.” Heart beats fast. Every hunter ought to have a journal, and his brother…

Yeah, maybe Dean’ll razz him about it, might even hate it and if so, Sam’ll just steal it back. Full-on Gollum with the One Ring clutched to his chest, he heads for checkout. Stops by the dollar store, real wrapping paper. Nothing fancy, flimsy green with tiny snowflakes. Damn near sprints to the motel.

–

Dean burps, undoes his pants and rubs his belly. Boston Market boxes clutter the bed and _Home Alone_ blares. Sam’s red-cheeked, tipsy off eggnog strong enough to strip paint.

“Fuckin’ lightweight,” Dean teases.

“Dude, I saw you _puke_ off less than this when you were—”

“Shaddup.” Dean stuffs leftovers in the mini-fridge. “We gonna open presents now?”

“Sure, why not?” Like he’s not vibrating inside.

Sam opens boxer shorts.

“Gettin’ to be a grown man now, Sammy. Gotta let your boys breathe.”

Deadpan. “My _boys_ appreciate your concern.”

Dean’s face pinks. Liquor must be gettin’ to him too.

Skin mags.

“If these pages are stuck together I’m gonna—”

“Sammy, you wound me!”

“It’s Sam, for fuck’s sake.”

Dean salutes, flips bird.

All three Harry Potter books.

Dean scratches his neck. “They ain’t new. You and your thirty-five—”

Sam launches himself at his brother. How Dean even knew Sam wanted these… “Thank you,” raspy.

Dean worms out of the hug, crinkled eyes, tipped chin. Then, “My turn!” Claps his hands.

Sam gives him the CLP, then the clothes. All wrapped in traditional Sunday funnies.

“So practical, geek-boy,” Dean grins.

Sam gets his backpack. Careful, so he doesn’t tear the paper…

Dean’s eyes bug out, just a flash. “Fancy.” Rips in, stops halfway and stares. “Is this…” Eyes up, jaw slack.

“Gettin’ to be a grown man now,” Sam says.

Dean draws a breath, choppy and deep. “Sammy, this—I mean. Sam. I dunno what to say.”

“Merry Christmas, Dean.” Sam turns away, eyes sting and Dean grabs his wrist.

“Hey.” Dean stands. Nose-to-nose since Sam’s last growth spurt. “Thank you.”

Sam’s tongue darts out. Mouth’s so dry, so close, and Dean’s eyes drop, tongue flashes too. “Dean?”

Hand slides up Sam’s arm, over his shoulder, behind his neck. Booze on their breath and Dean’s head tilts. Sam shakes. But… Dean can’t, this can’t— “Kiss me.” Barely audible. “If you want.”

Sam wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Continued in the next chapter…_


	3. Pink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Rating: Explicit
> 
> Tags/Warnings: underage, straight-up smut, pre-series, blushy Sam, dirty talk, incest and praise kinks, frottage, marking

Pressed lips to start, chapped. Warm and a little wet. Sammy draws back, eyes like baseballs. Dean throws eyebrow, half a smirk. “That all you got?”

Nose flares, cheeks pink and just like that, big hands come up, cup under his jaw. Kid tastes like rum and toothpaste when he worms his tongue in. Sweet little moan when Dean licks back. Long, long fingers flex, teeth bump and chins collide.

Dean snakes a hand inside Sam’s shirts, warm skin jumps against his palm. Sam’s hips kick and, _hello, hardon_. Dean spins, sweeps, and drops them to the mattress. Knee up between Sam’s thighs, elbows at his shoulders.

“Dean?”

“Y’said that already.” Best fuck-me smile.

Sam’s ears turn red and damn if that ain’t sexy. Dick rubs up Dean’s thigh and Sam attacks, bites at his lips and flips them, full cowgirl and Sam’s tongue, tryin’ for tonsil.

“Whoa.” Handfuls of hair, Dean tugs him back. “Easy, tiger.”

Sam growls.

Dean digs that. Arches up and shocks race through him. Needed this, so long, so fucked up. Chest gets tight. Own little brother and all he wants—

Goes out the window. Sam grinds on his open fly. Cock jerks and Sam groans. Dean takes the moment to roll Sam under, pins his wrists and licks the sweat up off his neck. Sam ripples.

“Sammy you sure about this?” Gotta ask.

“Yes, Dean. I’m fucking sure.” Breathless and bratty.

“’Cause,” may as well lay it all out there, “I wanna fuck you Sammy, fuck you up.”

Blush creeps down Sam’s throat.

Dean digs that too. “Make you holler, bounce you on my dick.”

“Oh my God.” Sam’s shoulders roll. Long neck exposed.

“See if I can get you off just reamin’ that asshole. Bet I can.”

Sam thrashes. Hair falls in his face, sticks in the sweat.

“You want that?” Dean breathes, “Little brother?”

Moan rips out of him, way past pink now. Flushed face almost purple.

Dean turns loose his wrists, hand-combs his bangs. Sam cinches arms and legs around like a bear trap. Breathes under Dean’s collar. Dean kisses eyebrow, temple, all he can reach while Sam humps. Gonna give him so much shit for this later but right now…

“Yeah, good, come on, little brother. Show me you want me.”

Chanting, “Please, please…”

“You gonna come this way? Blow in your pants like a dirty boy?”

“Dean!”

“Nah.” Truth be told, “I wanna feel it. Come on.”

Dean kneels up, peels his clothes off. Sam fights button-fly, stupid invention. Dean takes over and Sam’s abs seize. Butt hikes up off the covers and Dean strips him, shirts shoved up to his armpits.

And, much as Dean wants to make Sam lose it, he can’t stop his fingers sliding up, along Sam’s sides, between his ribs. Whole bed shakes. Sam’s fists bang. Body bends, thrusts at thin air.

“Fuck, you’re hot like this.”

Sam groans. Wiggles and gropes. “Please, Dean. Need—” Hiss. Dean thumbs a nipple and Sam jolts.

“Pretty little dirty boy, bein’ so good.”

Sam lets loose with this broken sound. Claws and tugs Dean’s shoulders, drags him down and Dean goes. Kisses around his ear.

Whispers, “Get yours, Sammy.”

Hips roll.

“Make yourself feel good, wanna see.”

Leg hooks around.

“Y’feel how hard you make me?”

Nails in his back.

“Yeah, that’s it.”

Cocks grind.

“So good for me.”

Sam roars. Grabs Dean’s ass and shoots between them. Head thrown back, flushed-wet from exertion. Dean dives, join of his shoulder and teeth and suction. Round pink mark. Hot-slick in the middle and Sam still moves, begs.

“Come on me, Dean, I want it.”

Dick jumps. “Yeah. Yeah, all right.” Don’t take much. Smell and feel of Sam all over. Fist slides up and down. Sam strokes his thighs, thumbs at his balls. Smears spunk around and Dean reels.

“Please, big brother.”

And, good night, Dean blows. Body shudders and arm gives out. Flops half on Sam, still spurting. Muscles clench and he must’ve screamed ’cause the next thing he knows…

 _BANG-BANG-BANG_ “Keep it down, ya perverts!”

Dean breathes hard. Covered in come and Sam cracks up.

“He doesn’t know the half of it.”

And Dean grins. “No.” Bumps Sam’s forehead. “He sure as hell don’t.”


	4. White

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Rating: Teen
> 
> Tags/Warnings: case fic, Season 6, hurt!Dean, non-linear, bed sharing, first in a long time

Blizzard. Fat wet flakes freeze on the windshield, clog the wipers.

Hand on the wheel and one on his brother, Sam begs. “Stay with me, Dean, come on.”

Teeth-chattering moan.

“You hear me?”

Gibberish, Sam takes for an affirmative.

<<<

Dean took point, like always. Flashlight strapped to his flare gun, swept the fog. Bitter wind swirled, hurled and hooked snow over the frozen lake. Sam grit his teeth. Shivered. Flexed his red-chapped hands. Wished he’d sprung for one of those stupid hats at the general store.

>>>

Sam battles the urge to drive faster. No sense dragging Dean out just to kill them both on a slick backroad. Heat runs full blast and Sam sweats, Dean shakes. Army blankets soaked through, icy-damp.

<<<

“Okay.” Sam closed his email app. “Bobby says it sounds like a _jäähän_. Literally Finnish for ice fiend.”

“Finnish? Why the hell’s one kidnappin’ kids from Lake Lillian?” Dean signaled the waiter to bring their check.

Sam shrugged. “What were dragons doing in Portland? You heard Bobby, ‘Mother of All.’ Maybe she’s—”

“Tryin’ to crack new markets?”

“Something like.”

>>>

Whiteout screws with his sense of time so bad the highway turnoff surprises him. Snowplow’s been through: main road’s salted and scraped. Sam hauls ass now. Motel’s maybe ten minutes out.

Nine.

Eight…

<<<

“Check it out, Sammy!” Dean popped up in a goofy ear-flapped hat. “Hey, hoser. Dis is da Great White North, eh?”

“Knock it off,” Sam bitched. “You look ridiculous.”

“I look warm,” Dean said. “Y’should get one too.”

>>>

Sam leaves the engine running, sprints for the room, slip-slides on asphalt. Numb hands blunder, juggle the key. He props the door and races for shotgun.

“C’mon, Dean. We’re here. Let’s get you inside, get you warm.”

Dean hums. “Warm inside,” he murmurs, “yeah… y’always were.”

Sam swallows.

<<<

“Heat,” Dean deadpanned. “That’s it.”

“Yup.”

“Not like, fire or silver or—”

“Fire, yeah,” Sam said. “Silver, no.”

“But we could like, gank this thing with a hair dryer.”

Sam grinned. “Theoretically. Be one hellofa hairdo though.”

“You’d know, Fabio.” Dean threw a backhand.

“Blow me.”

>>>

Sam steers Dean to a chair by the vent. “Lemme-uh. Get these clothes off you.”

Dean hooks an eyebrow.

“Then-ah, a warm bath?”

“Damn, Sammy, I gotta say…” He licks lips. “Y’r game’s got better.” Attempts a smirk.

<<<

Ear-splitting crack and “Sammy!” Dean just fucking disappeared.

Sam jumped sideways. Three paces back and it probably saved his life. Saved both their lives. Sam fired his flare, parallel to the fissure. Blind guess but a human shape burst into flames. Inhuman roar.

“Dean!” Cold as it was, Sam had maybe two, three minutes ’til the hole froze over.

>>>

Sam half-carries Dean to the dingy tub. “Gotta keep your arms and legs up, okay?”

Dean nods, more conscious than not now. Still in shock. Warm water makes him hiss.

“Too hot?” Sam asks.

“Nah.”

Eyes on the faucet. Sam ignores the pale stretch of his brother’s skin. Shoves down memories. Motel tubs and beds and floors, and all that skin, all his to touch.

<<<

“Lake Lillian, Minnesota.” Sam clicked around his laptop. “Kids going missing.”

“Dude, can’t we just?” Fingers drummed the table. “Lay low—”

“Saving people,” Sam said. “That’s the job, right?”

Cheek muscles twitched. “Go on.”

“Bitter cold—”

“Minnesota’s always cold.”

“Not like this. Plus the rest of the state’s unseasonably warm.” And, “Come on, man.” Sam held Dean’s eyes. “It’s kids.”

“Fine,” Dean sighed. “Roll out in ten?”

>>>

Sam cuts the tap. “Okay. Once this gets to feeling cool, you can put your feet and arms in, you remember?”

Dean splays. Left knee, elbow hook the tub edge. Right foot rides the soap dish, hand on his head.

“And after that you can add more heat, slowly.”

Sluggish nod.

“Dean? You got this, okay? I’m gonna—”

“Don’t go.”

<<<

Sprawled on the ice, Sam pulled with all his might. His brother’s strength, his smarts blew Sam away.

Somehow Dean found, clung to the edge. Eyes fluttered. Fingers scrabbled. Blue-lipped, barely conscious and still, “Y’okay, Sammy?”

“I will be. Just, stay with me, Dean. I got you.”

>>>

Sam dresses him, warm fleece and flannel. Lays him down.

“Cold sheets.” Dean shivers.

Sam deflates. “I know. Can’t find the heating pad; I’m sorry.”

Dean pats the mattress. “Make it up to me.”

<<<

Popped trunk, pair of flare guns each. Flashlights strapped to barrels, locked and loaded. Double socks and coveralls and Dean’s dumb goddamn hat.

“We good?” Dean asked.

Sam checked his weapons. “We’re good.”

Dean took point, like always.

>>>

Sam dreams, cracking ice and frosted glass and the devil’s laugh. Wakes up wrapped in his brother like he’s seventeen again. Dean snores in his hair, clutches his hand. Sam’s eyes close.

Sunrise, Dean stirs.

Dean… _stirs_.

Half asleep, Sam rocks against him. Almost lost him. Can’t—

“Sammy…” Dean pets his arm, his hair.

“Want you,” Sam says. “I never stopped.”

<<<

Sam shoved him off. “Dean, no.” And Constance, in his head: _You will be._ “I have a girlfriend now. A life.”

“Right.” Dean stalked off through the swirling dust. “I’ll tell you one thing. You screwed up my car? I’ll kill you.”

>>>

Dean groans.

Sam turns, tentative. Hand trails Dean’s chest. “Let me.” Sleep-warm—sweaty, even, where they’d pressed together. Sam thanks God.

Crooked knuckles brush his cheek. Sour morning breath, pillow marks, bed hair. Never been more beautiful. “Anything,” Dean says. Tongue glimmers.

Sam draws his brother in.


	5. Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Rating: Teen
> 
> Tags: episode coda, “Into the Mystic,” bunkerfic

Dean knows that box.

Scorched at the corners, warped from water. That girl, Jenny—lived in their old house—gave it to ’em full of pictures. One’s on Dean’s desk now, if his memory’s right.

“What, are you doin’ with that thing?” Last time he’d laid eyes on it, they were stashin’ it in a lockup.

Sam jumps like Dean busted him with pot (again). Turns all shades of red.

Dean shoves him over, lifts the lid. “Oak Park—are you fuckin’ with me?” He flips through glossy pages. Oldsters laugh and exercise, play cards and shuffleboard.

Sam puffs up. “I’m just… thinking about our golden years.” He grabs it back. “Anyway, you’re the one said we oughta make a reservation.”

“Aspirational, Sammy. Ain’t no way I’m still kickin’ long enough for a nursing home.”

“Retirement community,” Sam corrects.

“Okay, Tony Soprano.” Dean rolls eyes. “What else you got in there?” Pictures, goin’ back decades. Goofball wooden amulet from that school play. Pack of cards. “Seriously?”

“You remember the laundromat in Muscatine?” Sam ducks his head. Peeks through his lashes.

“Dude. Was that the one with the…” Dean laughs, low and dirty.

“I shoulda never played you at strip poker.”

“Sammy. You should _always_ play me at strip poker.”

“You cheat!”

“But we both win.” Dean licks lips.

Sam grins.

Dean keeps diggin’. Pocketknife, Zippo, coupla tapes and a CD— “Is this…?”

“Mom’s wedding ring.” Sam’s weight shifts, bracin’ to take a punch.

Dean doesn’t throw it. “You fucker, I thought I lost this!”

“I was afraid you were _gonna_ lose it.”

“So you stole it.”

“Kept it safe.” Sam picks it up, thumbs over the dinted metal. “You weren’t wearing it anymore.”

“Was gettin’ busted up.”

“See? You wanted it safe too.”

“You coulda told me.”

“Don’t pout, jerk.”

Dean flips him the bird. “Bitch.” Deep breath and, “Wait here a second.”

Sam squints.

Dean hits his room. Sammy ain’t the only one got a secret stash. In his desk, black lockbox. Poker chips from some of their better Vegas trips. Dean’s journal. Bunch of geek dice Charlie gave him. Button offa Cas’s old trench and Benny’s lucky silver dollar. Diamond cufflinks, swiped from Crowley. Last bullet he dug out of Dad…

He tucks his third and fourth most prized possessions in his fist.

“What are you up to?” Sam asks.

Dean shows palm. Pair of gold bands, slim and plain.

Sam’s mouth works like a fish. “What… Where’d you even get those?”

“From the-uh. The dragon’s stash?”

“Dude, that was like, five or six—”

“Yeah, I know. But-ah, right after that. You remember? With the Johann?”

“ _Jäähän_ ,” Sam corrects.

“Whatever.” Dean’s face gets hot. “You saved my ass that night. And-uh, next mornin’, we… y’know.”

Sam nods, eyes wide and wet. “So you, kept these. For—”

“Our golden years, I guess.” Dean shrugs.

Two hundred-some pounds of brother knock his breath out. Face smashed in his shoulder, arms like boa constrictors. Dean thumps, rubs Sam’s back. Kisses his hair.

“You’re impossible,” Sam says, muffled.

“Nah. Just highly unlikely.”

Bark of a laugh digs dimples deep. Dean worms loose. Plants the rings in the box.

Sam pales. “You don’t, wanna—”

“I don’t want ’em gettin’ busted up.” Dean pulls Sam close. “Anyway, we gotta get ’em sized.” Hands on his ass. “I-uh. I think they’re girls’ rings.”

Light bulb. “Oh my God, they’re virginity rings. Dean—”

Tongue in his mouth shuts him right up. “Naked,” Dean breathes. “Now.”

Sam grins.

“’Cause, I think I just made ya my wife, Sammy. That makes this honeymoon time.”

Annnd there’s the bitch-face. “I’ll show you wife, with my dick in your mouth.”

Come to think of it, that sounds, “Yeah.” Dean shuts the box, sets it on the desk. Shoves Sam to the bed and hits his knees. Winks up. “I got you, Sammy. You know that, right? Whatever happens.” Nose runs along Sam’s zipper.

Sam moans. “Yeah…” Long fingers brush Dean’s face. “We’re golden.”


	6. Silver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Rating: Explicit
> 
> Tags/Warnings: Stanford, pining, reunion, possessive Dean (ish)

**New Year’s Eve, 2002**

Sam throws back another shot of 1800, grimaces. Bone-shaking bass and mirror balls don’t do a thing for his tolerance. Brady thumps his arm and nods toward the railing. Sam lets him pick a path through the crowd. Wedged in, Sam checks out the floor show starting below.

Emcee calls herself Aretha, six-foot six in a gartered corset, thigh-high boots. “Welcome, drag fans!” Aretha croons. “We got one hellofa show for you tonight. Gonna ring in the new year in hiiiigh style.” She spins around, slow circle. “You boys be good, now. Tip the girls but keep your hands to yourselves.”

Hollers and whoops.

Sam’s pressed on all sides, glittery party hats and noisy horns. Blonde guy draped in silver sequins looks him head to toe, appreciates. Sam ducks away, tries to lose himself in revelers.

No clue how Brady talked him into this shit. No clue why Brady picked this place. Sam would’ve figured nightclub, wall-to-wall with boozy girls, lonely and short on self-esteem. Brady’s version of hunting. Sam would’ve picked a dive bar. Someplace his flannel shirt and boots don’t stick out, drinks come fast and cheap, and bartenders don’t ask questions.

Brady grips his arm. Sam gestures toward the men’s room. “Lightweight!” Brady yells and Sam inhales the urge to lay him out. Him and his frat bros wouldn’t last fifteen minutes with—

Sam blinks. Can’t be. Just, some young thing, leather coat and gelled hair. Sam’s teeth grind. Sees Dean everywhere in bowlegged store clerks, freckled co-eds, green-eyed strangers and thick-lipped starlets.

Bathroom’s packed like the rest of the bar. Sam squeaks in, splashes water on his face and debates going hungry the next two days to spring for a cab. He checks his watch. If he leaves now he can catch a bus back to his dorm. He’ll tell Brady…

Fuck it. He’ll figure something out.

Foggy Frisco Bay night makes the streetlights eerie. Makes Sam miss the sodium gold of the Midwest. Bus pulls up, Sam climbs on, near empty this time of night. Brakes hiss and they lurch away from the stop. Sam’s stomach churns.

 _“You puke on me, I’ll clean it off with your toothbrush,”_ rings in his memory.

What Sam wouldn’t give.

Grimy old-timer sips from a paper bag. “Happy New Year, kid.” Wipes off his bottle mouth and points it Sam’s way.

“Same to you, man,” Sam says. Waves off the drink.

Old-timer shrugs.

Lights roll past, out the windows; silver, red, and blue glimmer off brushed chrome in the aisles. Sam leans back, shuts his eyes. Old-timer leaves and a couple boards, kissing and giggling. Sam breathes through the ache in his chest.

Couple of blocks’ walk once he’s off the bus. Hands stuffed in pockets, shoulders hunched. Not cold, not by a longshot but he’s chilled in his bones. Passes a liquor store, thinks about ducking in for some rot-gut, Hunter’s Helper, but he can’t face drinking alone on New Year’s.

Quiet, near-deserted campus. Engine noise behind him conjures melancholy. Chevy small block, four-barrel carb, Sam would know one anywhere. Eyes front, he keeps on walking. No sense turning, staring down some stranger’s Oldsmobile or—

“Hey-uh. You go to school here, right?”

Sam’s head snaps up.

“’Cause, I was lookin’ for my little brother.”

He’s hallucinating.

“Tall guy, total geek…”

Or he’s passed out in the street and dreaming.

“Smokin’ hot though. Got these dimples…”

Whole world tilts.

“Tight little ass. Y’can bounce a nickel off that thing; I can tell ya personally.”

“Dean.”

Elbow hooked out the window, shit-eating grin. “You know a guy like that?”

“How…?” Chrome, fresh wax, and leather gleam.

“Hunter, Sammy. Come on.”

“But—”

“Y’keep standin’ there with your mouth hangin’ open, I’m gonna put somethin’ in it.”

He can think of five things instantly he’d be okay with.

“Get in the car, man. Killin’ me here.”

Sam climbs in shotgun. Smells like leather, blood, and oil. Dean’s aftershave. Tug at his neck, Dean lays one on him. Tongue and all, right there in the street.

“Dude, what—”

“Missed you, fucker.” Dean smacks Sam’s knee. Ring glints in the streetlights. Hand doesn’t leave. “I been casin’ this place for hours. Where you been?”

“Gay bar.” Sam feigns nonchalance.

Dean’s head tilts. Eyes go narrow.

“And, it’s 11:15 and I’m here, so what does that tell you?”

Jerky nod. “So. You wanna go for a drive? Or—”

“I live right there.” Sam points.

“Oh I know which one. Some locks they got; I was gonna surprise you.”

“You woulda got your ass kicked.”

Dean snorts. “Please. You’re outta practice.”

Sam’s heart hammers. “Dean, how did you… I mean, Dad…”

“I told him I was drivin’ out to see you, and he could shoot me if he didn’t like it.” Dean wheels in a parking spot, cuts off the key.

“Really.”

“My guess? I’d be laid up weeks from a bullet hole. This was the better deal.”

Sounds about right. Sam huffs, rage for his father bubbles.

“Fuck that, though,” Dean says. “This ain’t about him.”

“What’s it about, then?”

Dean’s hand slips up Sam’s thigh. “Take me upstairs, I’ll show you.”

Elevator doors slide shut and Dean’s all over him. Pins him so hard to the wall the car shakes. One hand at his throat, one works his jeans. “I’m gonna fuck you ’til you can’t walk, Sammy.”

Sam groans, ruts against him, licks him, grips his sides. Dean pulls back, leaves Sam panting. Dean’s mouth shines, chest heaves.

Half sprint to his room, end of the hall. Short trail of clothes, and Sam’s bed barely holds them. Dean on top, foot on the floor, hardon against his thigh and fingers in his mouth.

Dean sucks his neck. “You loose already? Get bent over at that bar? Y’know I ain’t for sloppy seconds, Sammy—”

“No!” Wet finger probes. “No one else. Just you.”

Spit-slick, Dean shoves in. Burns, been so long. “Yeah,” kiss to his spine, “I believe you. Nice and tight. Won’t have to fuck you dry to feel somethin’.”

“God, Dean.”

Cold. Fabric and plastic sounds. Springs creak, his mattress sinks. “Spread ’em.”

Sam pulls up, weight on his knees and elbows, face in his hands.

“Nah. Pull them cheeks apart. I wanna see.”

Face burns as Dean pets, tailbone-to-balls.

“Lookin’ good there, Sammy.” Fingers, slippery-warm. “Suckin’ me right in.”

Sam groans. Too much. Too fast. Goosebumps rip and his head spins. Lies, “C’mon, Dean. Do it, ready.”

Rumble Sam feels, more than he hears. “Sammy, you sure? ’Cause I—” 

“Can take it. Been too long, Dean, please.”

“Okay,” Dean breathes. “Okay.” Rubber and skin sounds. Dean’s hand, small of his back. Cock drives in, splits him, thick and smooth and searing. Dean growls, “Jesus, Sammy, burnin’ up, man.”

Sam grits teeth, fights tears. “Don’t stop. Oh God, don’t stop.”

Dean holds his hips. Forehead thumps sweaty on his back. Sam bucks and rolls and Dean moans, sinks ’til he’s flush against Sam’s ass.

Heartbeats. Synced-up, shallow breaths. Dean curls around him, slides out slow and Sam groans, braces knees and elbows.

Lock-jawed, “Thought you were gonna fuck me ’til I can’t walk.”

Teeth, sharp at his shoulder. “Watch it, Sammy, I’ll beat this ass when I’m done nailin’ it.”

Sam clenches, Dean jerks. Swirls in him, three or four more measured strokes.

“C’mon, man.” Sam’s back bends. Sparks from his sweet spot. Shudders.

“Fuck, Sam.”

Faster after, streaking sweat and slapping skin. Bruise-tight grip, hip and a shoulder. Torrent of filth, every depraved thing Sam’s wished for since August. Dick leaks on his blanket. Nails score his palms.

Dean finds the angle, finally, makes Sam yell. Strong callused hand gets on him. Dean slams hard and howls. They come together. Fall in a heap.

And when their breath’s caught: “Happy New Year, Sammy.” Wavers.

Sam can’t speak. Turns, far enough to kiss his brother. Forehead, eyelids, nose. Dean laughs. Pets down Sam’s back.

And out the window—silver, red, and blue—fireworks.


	7. Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Rating: Mature
> 
> Tags/Warnings: comedy(?), post-hunt, non-explicit shower lovin’

**Barton City, Michigan**

Dean waddles out of the woods. Soaked to the bone, sticky and cold. Mostly pissed. Yells, “Get the keys, Sam!”

“Did you get him?”

“I got him.” Dean shudders.

“You okay?”

“Ehhh…” Under a streetlight, Baby gleams. “I’ll live.”

Sam bursts into laughter. “You look like a Smurf.”

“Fuck you.” Dean splays his fingers. Thick gummy strands cling in between.

“Wow, that is nasty.” Not quite compassionate.

“The fuck is it with pagan gods in this state anyway?” Dean flicks a glob and it splats on the blacktop. “Gross.”

“You got me, man.” Sam pops the trunk, hands over a towel.

“Thanks.” Dean wipes at his face but it just smears the goop around. “Gimme a blanket, huh? Don’t want this shit on my upholstery.”

Sam wraps him up, burrito-neat, in a ratty old bedspread they swiped from a dolphin-themed motel, apparently. Bundles him in on the shotgun side. “Just chill. We passed a motel a couple miles back. We’ll get you cleaned up quick.”

Dean cusses under his breath. Sam’s good though. Don’t fuck around and don’t fuck with the radio. Pulls into the Skyview Motor Lodge. Little ten-room job at the edge of town. Dean waits, engine runs while Sam checks in.

Room 9, last door facin’ away from the street. Everything in the goddamn place is blue, some kinda cosmic joke. Sky walls and navy furniture. Carpet looks like fifty Grover puppets gave their lives. Sam peels Dean’s bedspread off; warm, viscous slime strings from his clothes. Dean strips. Sam folds the whole funky mess into a bundle.

Dean hits the bathroom. Mutters, “You shittin’ me?”

“What’s wrong?” Sam hollers.

“Ah, nothin’.” Just… the toilet? Dean’s seen a lotta blue tiles, fiberglass, and vinyl floors in his day, but shit. These motherfuckers are _committed_. In the blue (what else?) bathtub, he turns the taps. Half expects raspberry Kool-Aid to squirt out instead of water. Pulls up the knob, shower spits to life. Pressure’s feeble but it’s hot. And it sends his god-guts facial swirling down the drain.

Sam knocks. “You all right?”

Dean’s sudsed up, pink from the steam, and blessedly de-sticky-fied. “I’m awesome.” And, “How ‘boutcha jump in with me, Sammy? Help me wash those hard-to-reach places.”

“You got a one-track mind, you know that?” But Sam gets to strippin’.

“And you love the tune, so shut it.” Goosebumps, when he pulls the curtain back.

Sammy stretches. Dean goes cotton-mouthed. Long, lean torso, already slickin’ with sweat. Muscles shift under his skin. Waist like a fuckin’ wasp and arms like a linebacker. Best set of legs Dean’s ever seen, male or female. Soon be twenty years, Sam’s let him hit that, and even now…

Sam steps in and Dean puts him into the tiles. Kisses and rubs ’til they’re both hard, wet and panting. Sam sinks to his knees. Dean pets his face, his neck, his hair. Leans on the wall ’cause Sammy makes his legs go weak.

Annnd leaves him hangin’.

“Yo, dude, what the fuck?” Dean bulls up.

Sam grabs towels. “You get off now and you’ll pass the hell out.” Smug fucker. “And I’m not done with you yet.” Wadded-up terrycloth smacks Dean’s face.

Blue balls. Mega fuckin’ cosmic joke. “You better make it worth my while.”

Sam ducks his head. Dirty-sweet grin Dean ain’t never said no to, all his years. “I promise.”


	8. Yellow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Rating: Explicit
> 
> Tags/Warnings: strip poker, semi-public, face-fucking

**Muscatine, Iowa**

Ten-foot rubber duck dominates the sign above the double doors, plate glass windows. “SKWEEKY CLEEN,” which, Sam thinks might be courting a Chick-fil-A lawsuit. “24 HOURS.”

Dean tosses a canvas laundry bag, about knocks Sam’s breath out. Slings another one over his shoulder and slams the trunk. “C’mon, Sammy, let’s do this.”

Sam’s stuck with the blood-and-guts load, naturally. Spreads it out over two machines, feeds in soap and quarters. Shape this stuff’s in, probably take two cycles.

Dean chucks his arm and nods at a corner table. Cracked laminate top, foot missing, wobbly. Flanked by yellow molded plastic chairs. Dean slaps down brand-new playing cards. Sam stacks up quarters.

“Uh-uh,” Dean says. Smirk makes Sam’s heart race. “Just us and the change machines, this time of night.” Points up. “And the camera’s busted. ’S why you picked this place, right?”

“Yeah…”

“Strip poker, Sammy. Loser loads the dryers.”

“Dude.”

Dean’s tongue peeks. “Look, if you see any headlights out there, say the word and we’ll duck in that bathroom.”

“I don’t—”

“What’sa matter, Sammy?” Dean taunts. “You a little yellow baby chicken?” Flaps with his elbows. “Bok-bok-b’gok!”

Sam rolls his eyes so hard he almost sprains something. “Good God. Okay.”

Dean beams.

“You are such a child.”

“You love it.” Dean shuffles and Sam cuts. “Let’s start easy, huh? Five-card draw, fours and whores are wild, eight-ball in the hole and kiss your neighbor.”

“Okay, you just made those last two up.” Sam will not smack his brother.

“You don’t wanna kiss your neighbor?”

Sam points left. “Since my neighbor is a scummy concrete wall, no.”

“Dude. Across the street totally counts.” Dean cocks an eyebrow.

“Just deal,” Sam sighs.

He’s down to his socks and boxers when Dean says, “Seven-card Kansas City lowball, no-peek,” and he catches Dean palming an ace.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Sam’s face heats, fists ball up.

“What?” All wide-eyed innocence.

“You been stacking against me this whole time.” Sam stands up so fast he knocks the chair over.

“I dunno what you’re talkin’bout, Sammy. I’m—”

Car. “Goddammit,” Sam barks. “Bathroom. Now.”

“Hey, I love where your head’s at—”

Sam grabs Dean by a still-clothed arm and hauls him up. Out in the parking lot, headlights cut off. Somehow, Sam remembers to grab his clothes off the floor. He shoves Dean in the john. “Cheating at strip poker? I don’t fuckin’ believe you.”

“Wellll, you would, if you got to enjoy this view.” Dean leers. No shame. Zero remorse.

“I oughta kick your ass.” Sam breathes hard. So pissed off he’s got tunnel vision.

“Or, you could let me make it up to you.” Dean slides close, grazes a hand up Sam’s chest. Traces his tattoo. “Bend you over that sink, let you watch me fuck you?”

Suddenly, Sam’s blood can’t decide which way to go. “Oh hell no. I’m not getting you off when you just—”

“Blow job, then.” Dean drops to his knees, right on the dirty floor. Pulls Sam’s dick out, laps at the head. “You wanna fuck my mouth, little brother?”

Sam’s eyes flutter. Fluorescent bulbs hum overhead. Lights flicker off piss-stained tiles and smoke-dark stall doors. 

Dean mouths, gets Sam’s dick wet. Huffs out little hungry noises, watches through his lashes. Fingers roll and lift Sam’s balls. Dean teases. Sam slumps into the wall and strokes Dean’s face. Lips seal and his tongue works the ridge, licking and circling.

Chill air when he pops off. “C’mon, Sammy.” Spit-slick fist jerks. Dean grins and Sam shakes. “Gimme that dick. Use me. Come down my throat. You want that?”

Sam’s head thumps the wall. Dean dives on him. Soft tongue, ridged roof of his mouth. Bare edge of teeth, just like Sam likes it. Angle change and Dean goes all the way. Sam starts to move. Can’t help it. Dean’s eyes red and lashes wet. Pupils obliterate the green. Dean winks. Sam pets his hair. Pulls out some, lets him breathe.

“You’re sure.”

Dean nods, sucks Sam back in. Whole way again, like to prove it. Sam curls hands around his jaws, behind his neck. Dean rumbles, makes Sam buzz. Reflex thrust and Dean chokes. Sam’s head spins. Dean takes ahold of him, guides him. Sucks and jacks and grunts and _fuck_. Sam tries to be careful, but—

Finger, back of his balls, spit-wet, worms at his taint. Sam’s knees give, body slides and Dean sinks in him. Second knuckle, bends and squirms. Sam’s gut seizes and Dean’s hand steadies him. Mouth ruins him. Sam gnaws his fist to keep from screaming.

“Still wanna kick my ass?” Dean rasps.

And, Sam… seems to have lost some minutes. Dick’s tucked in and Dean’s got arms around him. Nose traces his neck.

“Still can’t believe you cheated,” Sam says.

“But we both won.” Dean grinds. Front of his jeans jams clammy against Sam’s hip.

“You came?”

“You’re really fuckin’ hot, Sam.” Zero shame. “Rematch?” Shit-eating grin.

“Fine,” Sam huffs. “But I’m dealing.”


	9. Cream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Inspired by the 6th prompt here](https://nisaki-chan.tumblr.com/post/168546701394/chromehoplite-rumpuswriters-christmas-aus)
> 
> Chapter Rating: Explicit 
> 
> Tags/Warnings: bunkerfic, blushing Sam, panty kink, comedy(?)

Sam’s taking his time in the shower. Dean’s pissed, kinda has a right to be, even if he _is_ acting like a giant baby. Ludicrous. Sam’s seen him walk off cracked ribs, concussions. Slice up his arm like it’s nothing to prove he’s no shifter. Ohh but let Sam screw up once, one honest mistake, and…

Day started out bad. Unholy screech from the HVAC dragged them both out of sleep. And it’s not like the Bunker gets _cold_ -cold, not like the drafty old shacks they used to hole up in. But, they’re not young like they used to be either, and well? If Sam’s being honest, the Bunker is making them soft.

So anyway. Six in the morning, and seeing their breath. And they can’t just call a repairman. Magic-mechanical-antique-hybrid experts are… basically Dean. So they bundled up, and Dean made for the boiler, and Sam got the genius idea to fix breakfast. Bacon, oatmeal, pancakes, the works. Even dug out the gourmet cocoa Donna brought last time she visited.

“Jesus, Sammy, you drown in there?” Dean yells, and, “You better not hog all the hot water.”

Sam sighs. Far as he knows the Bunker _can’t_ run out of hot water. Not that he’s tested it rigorously. Still, he cuts the taps, slips into comfy fleece pants and a totally not dead-guy’s robe. Heads down the hall.

Racket from Dean’s room. Stress-cleaning, Sam bets.

See, it was all going great at six-thirty. Dean found the source of the screeching: plain old fan belt. Magical failsafe kicked in, shut off the pilot to prevent overheating and so… Quick trip to a hardware store and they’d have it licked.

Meanwhile, Sam’s work at the stove turned the kitchen damn near cozy. Dean sauntered in, sniffed big, and plopped with a satisfied grunt at the table. Sam grinned, proud of himself. Their day was looking up.

Until…

Sam eases his bedroom door closed. Opens his desk. He’s been saving this for Dean’s birthday, but, desperate times. _Eighteenth Century French Philosophy_ : thick, gold-embossed and leather-bound, and fake as hell. Hollow middle holds the rare and random things he keeps from Dean. Like, birthday presents and Sam’s real toothbrush.

Everything went sideways when he served the cocoa. Steaming mugs, can of whipped cream, butterscotch schnapps, even chocolate sprinkles. Dean grinned, rubbed his hands together, grabbed a cup and gulped—

Spit-take, all over the floor. “Wha wuh whuck, Wham?”

He panicked. Wielded the whipped cream like a fire extinguisher and shot Dean’s mouth full. Dean’s eyes went wide. Shock, then rage, then a beat where he seemed to recall he loves whipped cream out of the can… Then rage again. Dean spun on his stool and stormed out. Sam stared after him, slackjawed.

He’s got a plan though. One, stretchy, lacy, see-through plan to make Dean forget all about this morning. Matter-fact, Sam has his way? Dean’s gonna lose his shit completely.

And, okay. He gets a little nervous once he’s got them on. Not ’cause of how they look. Sam’s smokin’ hot if he says so himself, it’s just… if he got it wrong, if Dean’s not into this, well…

See, if it was a birthday thing, yeah. There’d be some mocking and blushing but no harm. Dean’s all pissy today, though, so—

Fuck that. Dean’s always talkin’ shit about, Sam’s his wife, he’s such a chick. Plus, Sam knows about Rhonda Hurley. Chuck dropped that little diamond in one of his “lost” books.

Anyway, Sam’s got this. Just… tell that to his limbic system. Flushed face, shallow breathing and racing pulse—and he’s not even in Dean’s room yet.

Sam focuses. Old pair of jeans, from before the Trials. Low-rise back then; now they dangle, threaten to fall right off. But… Most important thing is, the lace shows. Off-white waistband peeks out all the way around. Long as Sam can keep them from dropping for fifteen, twenty paces, he’s golden.

Dean’s lost in his headphones, clicking around on his laptop. Asian cartoon porn, twenty bucks. Sam hopes so, anyway. Dean’ll be in a better mood, more pliable if he’s already half-mast. Sam knocks on the doorframe. Dean can’t hear, so Sam heads for the bed. Just a nudge, bare-toed is all it takes and Dean’s eyes snap up.

“Sam.” All business. Headphones hooked behind his neck.

“Dean, I came to apologize.” He stretches. Jeans inch down and his shirt rides up.

“I accept. We good?” Dean goes to put his headphones back on.

“Yeah, we’re good.” Sam bends sideways. “I just… wanted to make sure you’re okay, you know?”

“’M fine, Sam. Scalded the shit outta me, but I’ll live.” Dean puts the laptop down. “You don’t _boil_ the water for cocoa y’idiot. Who does that?”

Sam shrugs. “Pussy tea-drinkers, I guess.” He ducks his head, gives Dean the full puppy.

“Well, live and fuckin’ learn, huh?” Dean rolls eyes. “S’okay, Sam. Told you I’ll live.”

Sam nods. Takes one more stretch.

“You fuck up your back or somethin’?” Dean squints. “Got a real, Jane Fonda thing goin’—holy shit.” Dean swings to his knees and crawls forward. “Are those…?”

“Oh these?” Sam plays all innocent. “Yeah, I just,” wiggles his butt, “I kinda like ’em.”

“Lemme see!” Dean grabs for his fly.

Sam takes one step…

Annnd his jeans hit his ankles. Dean cracks up. Sam turns red, bends over, tries to save it but Dean pounces. Uses Sam’s compromised position to trip-spin-throw him to the bed. Kinda hot, if he’s honest.

Mouth trails down Sam’s neck, fingers ghost his abs. “Son of a bitch, Sammy, you shave?”

Quick nod. Sam goes even redder. Pretty much everything, knees to his waist, except for his balls and a patch at his root. Dean shoves his shirt up, nuzzles and rakes stubble over the sensitized skin. Sam shivers.

Dean kinda, kisses his cock through the lace. “Can I?” Breathy and wide-eyed. Tongue runs out and Sam gets stiff, panties stretch and tent. “Jesus, Sammy.” Dean’s lips close around, sinful.

Yeah. Plan’s going even better than Sam could’ve hoped. He walked in here expecting to get _his_ mouth shot full this time.

Dean moans, slobbers and licks. Pets Sam’s smooth thighs, fondles his balls.

Sam settles in. Folds his hands behind his head and lets his brother work.

Dean gets him around the hips. Thumbs trace the creases. Head bobs and wet heat soaks the lace. Dean nibbles, teeth tug the waistband. Sweet sting where the elastic snaps. Sam shudders, stomach clenches and he shoves up to his elbows. Dean grins, flushed face, dilated pupils. Strokes and squeezes.

Sam’s so hard his head pokes out the top. Dean licks in his slit, circles the ridge. Sam bucks. Dean drags down the front, tucks the waistband under Sam’s balls.

“Turn over, turn over,” and Sam’s on board for wherever this is going. Zipper sound, Dean’s jeans fall to the floor. He kneels between Sam’s legs. Wraps around him, jacks him. Dick slides up between his cheeks, over the panties and Dean breathes, “Fuck, Sammy, feels so good, want you in satin next time, velvet, fuckin’—”

 _Next time_.

Sam fucks into Dean’s hand, twists and rolls and when he comes, Dean shoves him down. Jerks off behind him. Grunts and blows all over Sam’s ass, yells for him. Hot splashes on his back and thighs. Dean pitches forward. Blankets him. Mess underneath him and in between them.

Dopey smile Dean doesn’t see. “So you forgive me?”

Dean’s laugh shakes the bed. “Almost.” He rolls off. Groans, “I gotta shower.”

“Me too,” Sam says. “Again.”

Dean turns him over, mouths up his neck. “And after that,” nips at his ear, “you’re gonna give me the full-on _Varsity Blues_.”

Sam blinks. “I don’t—”

“The whipped cream bikini, Sam. I swear to—”

Sam’s tongue in his mouth shuts him up. “You been thinking about that this whole day, huh?”

“I been thinkin’ about that my whole life.”

Sam cracks up. “All right. If that’s what you want, whipped cream bikini it is.”

“Damn right.”

“But you’re wearing it.” Sam licks a nipple.

Dean groans.


	10. Black

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [kind of inspired by this](https://amourfoncewrites.tumblr.com/post/169013794541/never-say-never-sammy-innocentsam-x)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Chapter Rating: Explicit
> 
> Tags/Warnings: dubcon(?), Demon Dean, episode tag – “Reichenbach,” dialogue-only, dirty talk, mentions of rough sex and demon blood addiction

“What I’m gonna do to you, Sammy? That ain’t gonna be mercy either.

“’Cause. I’m gonna slip these cuffs. Don’t need no… demonic powers to pick a lock. Aw and then… I’m gonna come for you.”

“Kill me.”

“Naw! I ain’t gonna kill you, Sammy, thought we established that. I’ma play nice. Don’t wanna, end up in that devil’s trap dungeon a-yours. I’ma take care a-you, like old times. Pick you up, fuck you against the wall, not even break a sweat. Ooo and the stamina now. Teenager on Viagra over here, ’cept I know what I’m fuckin’ doin’. I’ma fuck that ass raw, Sammy, get you off so hard you shoot the ceiling.”

“Shut up.”

“Shut up? Why don’tcha come back here and make me? Get that dick out, choke me on it. Promise I won’t bite… hard. Anyway you like it to hurt, ohh I know. Heard you moan, felt your insides shake when I pull that hair, pinch on them titties. I ain’t ever pressed the issue before, because… baggage, y’know, but, hmh… that ain’t a problem anymore.

“Shit. Maybe I’ll tie you up. Spread you out, all pretty for me. Eat that ass ’til you’re sloppy and loose and… mmh. Stick a couple fingers in you. Tickle that sweet spot, damn, I can see it. Strung out, sweaty and rock-hard, leakin’ all over yourself. Fuck yeah. I’ma make you beg, little brother.

“I see you squirmin’ up there. Got wood just thinkin’ about it, aint’cha?

“See, I got your number, Sammy. Give you everything you want, keep the warden happy. Hell, I’ll hunt with you, cook for you, buy you pretty panties…”

“I said, shut, up.”

“Yeah-yeah. You’re the boss.”

 _’Cause… once I’ve got you so far gone I can trust you… well._ _I’m gonna open a vein. Feed you that go-go juice you been cravin’ all these years, can’t hardly wait. See you get strong, eyes black like mine. Make you the king ol’ Yellow Eyes never could. String Crowley up by his own intestines, bring back the rack, restore fuckin’ order. I’ma put you on the throne, little brother. Be your knight in faithful service, same as I always been._

_Gonna give you Hell._


	11. Plaid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when you’re running out of colors
> 
> Chapter Rating: Explicit
> 
> Tags/Warnings: underage, clothes-sharing, first time

Soft flannel slides up Sam’s arms. Red and black, shot through with yellow. Faded. Loose at the shoulders, wide at the waist. Sam folds it around himself and breathes. Engine and smoke, leather and dime-store aftershave.

Every time Dad drags Dean off on a hunt, if he can, Sam swipes a shirt from Dean’s laundry. Kinda gross, he guesses, but—he won’t begrudge himself this one tiny comfort in his life.

He towels steam off the bathroom mirror. Hair drips on his collar. Dad’s been on him to cut it and Sam would, but… His face heats up. Dean likes to razz him about it, tug on it, call him a girl. And, since Christmas, sometimes Dean cups the back of his head. Scratches his scalp. Sam leans into it and Dean winks. Sam’s insides tighten up.

Damp North-Missouri wind rattles the windows. Makes Sam shiver. Gray sky dumps wet snow on the parking lot. Icicles hang off the eaves, the neon sign. Asthmatic heater only helps so much.

Sam flips on the TV. Ten o’clock news, local weather. More snow, more cold. Looks like he’s holed up for another weekend.

Dean called yesterday, said they’d got word of a black dog up in Waterloo. “Sit tight, Sammy. Order some porn.”

Yeah, right. Sam’s luck, it’d be the one time Dad inspected the room receipt.

“Be back before you know it.”

Just, not for Dean’s birthday. Pisses Sam off—Dean, freezing his ass off, tracking a black dog in bum-fuck Iowa. He should be here. Dad probably won’t even remember, and God knows Dean won’t say anything. Sam would at least stick a candle in a Twinkie. Let Dean put him in a headlock, call him a sap.

Sam flops on the bed, noses in Dean’s shirt. Dick perks up, and Sam shoves his sweatpants down. Strokes himself hard.

He could give Dean a real birthday. Buy him a flannel, bake him a cake. Even in Sam’s head it comes out crappy, dense and dry. Dean eats it anyway, flashes a chocolatey grin.

 _“That’s not even your real dessert,”_ he’d say. Walk behind Dean’s chair, wrap his arms around and kiss Dean’s neck. Get him all worked up and slip away, out of his clothes.

Sam groans. Jerks, hard and fast, picturing Dean’s pink mouth, shiny with shared spit. Maybe Dean’s tipsy—birthday, after all—so when Sam crawls on the bed, ass up in invitation, Dean’ll follow. Run hands up his thighs and kiss his back. _“Want you, Sammy.”_

And Sam’ll say _“yes, please, fuck me,”_ and make Dean groan.

Sam ditches his sweatpants. Tube of KY—swiped from that Wal-Mart back in Texas—sealed in its box, in his bag, in a rolled-up pair of socks. In anticipation.

Slippery stuff squirts on his fingers. Takes a few tries, to find an angle. On his side, knees bent, circling his hole. Fingertip, like he’s done in the shower a hundred times. Deeper. Muscles flex, squeeze at his knuckle. Sam thrusts slow. Feels weird but not unpleasant.

In his head, he’s back to Dean’s birthday. Slicking himself loose, making Dean watch. Getting all wet and ready for him, moaning for his dick. Two fingers burn a little. Sam twists, wiggles and stretches—

Door. Icy air blasts in and he panics. Gun’s on the nightstand, but Sam can’t even breathe, let alone—

“…tellin’ you, Dad, these roads are shit. I about wiped out three… uh… what?”

Sam claws at the bedspread, scrambles to cover himself.

“Yeah, sorry, I-uh. Got distracted.” Dean sounds like he swallowed gravel. “Anyway yeah. I’m gonna hole up here. Call you tomorrow.” Phone beeps. “Sammy?”

“Hey, Dean.” Tries to sound casual.

“Uh…” Dean shakes his head like to clear it. “Am, I interrupting something? I mean, obviously, but like. You want some privacy? ’Cause, I can—” Thumbs toward the door.

“No!” Sam blurts. _Shit._ “What are you even doing here?”

Dean coughs. “I-uh. Dad sent me. I dunno what he’s into but it ain’t no black dog. Called up Caleb and Bobby and sent me packin’, told me to look out for…” Blinks. “Okay, seriously though, what the fuck?”

Sam burns up. Pops off, “It’s called masturbating, Dean, maybe you’ve heard of it?” Cringes.

“You-uh…” Dean’s tongue runs out. “Do this a lot?” Throat works. “F-finger yourself?”

Sam shakes his head, blushes to his belly button.

“But you like it.”

Sam nods.

“You. Thinkin’ about me?” Dean quirks that eyebrow.

“Always,” Sam breathes.

Dean rocks like he’s chest-punched. “Show me.”

“Is that what you want?” Sam throws off the bedspread. Dick hard and glistening. “’Cause, you could take over.”

“Sammy.” Raspy. Mattress squeaks. Dean’s hand runs up his thigh.  

Sam groans. Rocks with his wrist, pumps with his fingers. “Wish it was,” Sam swallows, “you inside me.”

“Aw, fuck.”

“You’d get,” shaky, “so much deeper. Make me feel so good.”

Dean’s breath falls hot on his hip.

“Want you to fuck me, Dean. Don’t wanna wait.”

And Dean’s hand on his wrist. Pulling, rolling, pinning. Teeth at his neck. “Some mouth you got, you little tease.”

“Not teasing.”

“Yeah?” Dean grinds. Zipper against Sam’s bare skin makes him moan.

“Please.”

Dean disappears. Sam grimaces, pushed too hard, spooked Dean, but… Clothes hit the floor. Sam looks. Dean’s chest, naked. Sam springs up, kisses. Dean’s abs jump. Sam drags his pants down; dick slaps his belly, dark and straining. Sam’s gut clenches.

“Turn over,” Dean grates. “On your knees.”

Sam almost shoots right there.

KY cap clicks. Kiss to his tailbone. “Fuck, y’should see yourself, Sammy.” Finger, tracing, circling, pressing. “Hole’s all wet and shiny. Fuckin’ beggin’ for me.”

“Do it, God, I…” Sam pants.

Dean slides in, thick and insistent. Knuckles drag Sam’s rim. He rocks, breathes out, wants more. Dean moves. Curls and twists and fucks. Sam clutches the pillows. More lube, more stretch, slick skin sounds and Sam moans.

“You ready?” Breathless. “Sammy, you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Sam exhales, wills himself open.

Dean’s cock splits him, hot and blunt. Sam grunts, sweat breaks, back bends. Dean stops just inside. Hands at Sam’s hips. Petting, squeezing. Huffs, “You okay?”

Sam nods, jaws locked. Head spins.

“So tight, Sammy, Jesus.” Shudder rocks him. Dean moans, sinks in further. “You’re killin’ me here.”

“Keep going,” Sam grits.

Dean growls. One steady push and he’s buried.

Sam’s toes curl, fists ball, teeth grind.

“Y’gotta be still, man, I’m gonna come.”

Laugh tumbles out.

“Dude!” Dean curls around him, folds him up. And, “What the…” Head shakes, pressed to Sam’s back. “You fucker, I been lookin’ for this shirt.”

“Smells like you.” Sam ripples.

Dean’s grip tightens, hips flex and body rumbles. Fingers drift, slip along Sam’s dick. Sam jerks. Dean makes this broken sound and starts to move. Sam’s eyes well up. Dean. In him, on him, all around him. Full and burning, overwhelmed.

Sam blows, every muscle seizes. Dean yells, stutter-thrusts and comes right with him. Shocks and aftershocks, Sam ruins the covers, spit and sweat and come. Dean rolls them sideways. Pulls out slow and they breathe together.

Sam drifts…

Vaguely, he’s aware Dean cleans him. Warm wet rag between his cheeks and murmurs: _hot_ and _fuck_ and _perfect_. Sore. Wrung out. Ecstatic.

Dean’s phone rings before first light. Sam’s in his arms. Shirt’s bunched at his armpits and he needs a shower, bad.

“Hey, Dad.” Dean doesn’t let him go. “We’re fine. Still snowed in.“ And—

“Yes, sir.

“Yes, sir.

“Yes, sir.”

Sam’s teeth grind.

“Call you soon.” Phone off. Dean turns, gives Sam a kiss. “Mornin’.”

Sam gives him tongue. “Happy birthday, Dean.”

Dean rolls him under.

* * *

_[Bonus: What Dean walked in on (NSFW)](https://di1.ypncdn.com/m=eaAaaEPbaaaa/201701/30/13466885/original/8/hot-solo-male-ass-fingering-in-a-hotel-room-8.jpg) _


	12. Gray

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Rating: Explicit
> 
> Tags/Warnings: futurefic, Dean’s birthday, curtain-ish, panties
> 
> Other pairings (nothing explicit): Aiden/Krissy, implied Ketch/Mary and Claire/Kaia

Fifty years.

Half a fuckin’ century.

You’da told Dean at twenty, he’d see the back side of over-the-hill, he’da called you crazy.

Really only hit him ’bout a month ago. Him and Sam were out pickin’ out a Christmas tree, bickerin’. Dean spotted a Winchester special, brown and scrawny on one side.

Sam griped, “But, the kids are coming over—”

“And they’ll learn important shit. Like, tradition, and looks ain’t everything.”

Right about then, Dean caught a girl lookin’. Thirties, pretty, long red hair trailin’ out of a blue sock cap. Enormous grin. And, he got set to lay the old, _how-you-doin’_ on her when she blushed and giggled.

“I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t stare, it’s just… you two are so cute.”

And Dean bulled up. Like, _Listen, lady. We, are the Winchesters. Dangerous. Legendary. Smokin’ fuckin’ hot, okay. But we are not cute._ Except… Dean glimpsed Sam, in his peripheral, givin’ him mushy eyes, and… _Dammit…_ Dean sighed.

They are totally cute.

But, Sam caved on the tree, so Dean counts the win.

Yeah…

Fifty’s fuckin’ ancient, for a hunter. Even accounting for him and Sam’s… special circumstances. Lookin’ back, they never appreciated on-tap angel healing near enough. After this last time Cas lost his mojo, well. ’S when they started feelin’ their, advancing age or whatever.

Like… Gunslingin’ shifter caught Dean in the leg in ’23. Sam tore up his back, barricading civvies in a house during a zombie outbreak. Neither one ever healed up right, never mind day-to-day aches and pains. These days they pretty much work the phones, research for other (younger) hunters, maintain the Bunker. Wound up full-on Bobby and Rufus after all, which… makes Dean kinda proud. Not that he’ll ever admit it.

Course, they still hunt sometimes. Local stuff, hauntings and shit. Or, what Sam’s started callin’ their date hunts. Load up, just the two of ’em, guns and salt and spells and silver. Dean’s Baby and the open road.

Sam’s phone chirps and he puts his book down. “Krissy.”

“They here?” Dean asks and Sam nods.

Bunker door clangs.

“Pop!”

Sounds like a stampede down the stairs. Dean stands up, braces for an armload of eight-year-old. Ten pounds of hyper in a five-pound bag come at him, full-barrel run.

“Kenneth Lee—” Krissy bitches. “Aiden, collect your son.”

“Ohhh, now he’s _my_ son.”

Dean grins. Him and Sammy never had kids of their own—freaky rapid-aging monster offspring notwithstanding. Somehow, they still wound up with a slew of grandkids. Jody’s girls, Krissy and Aiden, even Josephine’s twins call them Pop and Papaw.

Started as a joke. Krissy, callin’ him Grandpa, ever since the whole vetala thing. Kenny musta been about two, when he asked, all toddler-serious, “Are you? My gampaw too?”

Krissy gave him this soft look. And Dean went a little light-headed. And she said, “Yeah,” and that was it.

Except, he didn’t wanna be Grandpa, out of respect for her old man’s memory. So, he became Kenny’s Pop, and Sam was Papaw, and all the kids picked it up after that.

Dean watches Sam, same as he always does. Hugs Krissy, shakes Aiden’s hand. Spins Kenny around and hands out beers. Sam laughs, tosses that hair. Longer than ever and got that, premature gray thing goin’. Sexy as hell and he don’t even know it. Dean Winchester’s a lucky man.

Mom shows up with that asshole Ketch (which… talk about your redemption arcs). Whole Sioux Falls crew—three vans’ worth—rolls in at once. Jack brings Cas, sudden appearance scares everyone shitless. No less than six guns come out.

Dean laughs. Fuckin’ hunter parties.

Full swing, passin’round bottles and babies and stories. Sam spins jazz from the Bunker’s heyday. Dean plays cards with the grandkids: old maid, go-fish, crazy eights. Catches Sam’s eyes, every chance he gets. Mom brings out a cake, bonfire of candles. Dean damn near passes out tryin’ to get ’em all.

And, even though he was very clear, when he agreed to this—no fucking presents—not a damn one of ’em listened. Practical stuff, mostly (mercifully). Clothes and tools and kitchen gadgets. Ketch’s snooty ass bought him a gold watch. Kids drew him pictures.

Patience’s handwritten binder of Moseley-Turner family recipes chokes him up a little. “My grandma,” she tilts her head, “says she’s so proud of you.”

“She here?”

She nods.

“Is there… anyone else?”

“No.” Patience squints. “She says, everyone’s hanging at Ash’s—um, Ellen’s bar. In, Ash’s Heaven. Says, ‘We’ll be seeing you, Dean, just not too soon,’” Smile, then a wrinkled nose. “And… Vince Vincente is playing Zeppelin covers?”

“Okay that, is a sacrilege,” breaks up the moment.

Sam squeezes Dean’s knee under the table.

Some of the girls sprung for a hotel suite in Omaha. “Ain’t much,” Jody shrugs, “but you can drive there tonight.” Gestures around. “And, we got the phones, the next few days.”

So they’ll hit the road. Dean’s good with that.

Hugs all around.

Claire pulls him aside. “Hey-uh. Me and Kaia…” She presses a card to his palm. “Couple’s massage, for your, little getaway. We weren’t sure, y’know. Who all knows.”

Dean scoops her up. “Thanks, kid.”

“Happy birthday, gramps.”

“It’s Pop, I’ll have you know.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

Somebody snuck in the garage and packed Baby with smoothies, beer, and road snacks. Overkill, for a three-hour ride, but he grins big. Sam folds into shotgun, arm on the seat back, hand on Dean’s neck. Like it oughta be.

Hotel’s pretty swanky, especially by hunter standards. Big bed, hot tub, TV off the Starship Enterprise.

“Special occasion?” The desk girl asked.

And Sam said, “Our anniversary,” which… once Dean thought about it, wasn’t even a lie. “Twenty-eight years.”

Girl’s eyes went wide, huge smile. “Wow, that is amazing. You know what, let me…” Tapped on her tablet. “Honeymoon upgrade. On the house.”

Which also meant, champagne, and roses, and chocolate-dipped strawberries.

Dean tips the shit outta room service.

Sam pours the bubbly and Dean feeds him a strawberry. Handful of hair, pulls back and tastes it on his mouth. They drink.

“That shit is nasty.” Dean grimaces. “Hit me again.”

Sam rolls his eyes. Gets Dean by a belt loop, tows him in. Ain’t the booze goes to his head. Sam rubs up on him and Dean groans. Jeans get tight.

They stand there, makin’ out over the service cart. Hands and lips and teeth and breath. Gropin’ asses, poppin’ buttons. Dean licks up the line of Sam’s throat, nips at his jaw, his earlobe. Soft grunts go straight to his dick.

Sam steps back. Opens his pants and slides them down. Dean gawks. Creamy little lacy panties.

“Did you… This whole day?”

Sam blushes. “Uh-huh.”

“Sammy, you dirty bitch, I…” Dean blinks, three or four times, “I love you.” Dawns on him he’s never said that, not that he can remember, and that’s a crime. “I love you,” he repeats. “You know, right? Rip the world apart for you, Sammy, I…”

Sam stares, mouth hangin’ open.

“Yeah… yeah, all right. Let’s wrap this chick flick and get with the porno, huh?”

Sam’s on him. Kissin’ him, rippin’ his jeans off. Whispers, “I love you. I love you,” like a broken record. Maybe a dam. Sam throws him down. Bed bangs the wall and Dean grins. Sam pins him. Dick hits lace, and Dean’ll buy all the Viagra, anything, to keep this.

“Want you to ride me.” Dean bucks.

Sam licks his lips and God, he’s gorgeous. Long hard body, strong as ever if not so bulky. Gray hair past his shoulders. “Need lube.”

Dean leers, Sam turns…

Knocks Dean’s breath out. Fuckin’ thong. Sam hung around friends and family—fuckin’ ate cake and ice cream with that up his ass. Dean’s cock jumps.

Sam falls facedown, hooks a knee. Dean pulls the panties to one side. Sammy opens easy for him now, muscles slack and hungry. Dean plays with his insides, wiggles and teases, and once Sam’s sweatin’, rockin’ and fuckin’ himself on Dean’s hand, Dean flops back. Slicks his dick up.

Mile-long leg swings over him. Big hands press his chest. Sam’s tongue dives in his mouth, behind his teeth and Dean grabs hold of himself. Aims toward Sam’s hole. “You ready?”

Sam nods. Sinks down, all the way. Chest shines and his head falls back. “Gonna make you come, Dean.”

Hips jerk. “You first.”

“Nope,” Sam grins down, filthy. “Your birthday.”

Dean pats his middle. “So-uh… how ’boutcha gimme my present right here.”

Sam groans. Dean shoves in him. Bounces and swirls. Sam’s legs shake.

“That’s it, Sammy,” Dean breathes. “Get yours, little brother, blow all over me.”

Full-body shudder and Sam moves. Lace rakes up and down and Dean growls, clenched light-headed. Hands on Sam’s hips, lip in his teeth. Sam leans on the headboard, goes for it. Ass slaps Dean’s thighs, balls knock. Dean thumbs nipples, strokes Sam’s cock.

“Not yet, not yet,” Sam pants, but they don’t slow down.

Dean curls up, has to touch. Sam’s ass, the thong, where his cock disappears. So hot, so worked up, “Close, man.”

Sam nods. Swivels and squeezes. Pulls his dick out, jerks off. “Come with me, Dean, shoot in me, fill me, _please_.”

Little shit knows what that beggin’ does to him.

Annnd Sam’s gone. Paints Dean’s belly. Sears him, scalds him, fucks him up. Dean roars. Sam clamps down. Muscles, wet, and lace. Dean whites out, claws at the covers. Sam collapses. Last thought somethin’ like, _can’t believe it’s still this good_.

Sam’s head on his chest, Dean naps.

Big walk-in shower, pizza delivery.

Champagne’s warm and flat and the best thing Dean’s ever tasted, licked out of Sam’s belly button.

Hot tub time.

Sam dries his back. “Happy birthday, Dean.”

“Happy anniversary, Sammy.” Dean grins.

“I love you.”

“Yeah, I know.” Headlock. “You fuckin’ sap.” Kiss to his hair. “Me too.”


End file.
